


Lonely Shadows (following me)

by rcgiii



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Drabble, Ghosts, Joseph Kavinsky is His Own Warning, M/M, Proko is a ghost, Why Did I Write This?, and he's not happy, or horrid rambling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-10-15 15:42:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17531558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rcgiii/pseuds/rcgiii
Summary: Every now and then, a voice whispers in Proko’s ear that’s undoubtedly his own. Sometimes he  wonders if K hears it too, in the moments when he goes rigid in the middle of laughing or smoking or fucking. He wonders if  it sounds the same to him, all bitter with its "you’re nothing like I was" and "you’re nothing at all."(Joseph Kavinsky dreams up Proko. Ilya won't let it be that easy)





	Lonely Shadows (following me)

  Every now and then, a voice whispers in Proko’s ear that’s undoubtedly his own. Sometimes he  wonders if K hears it too, in the moments when he goes rigid in the middle of laughing or smoking or fucking. He wonders if it sounds the same to him, all bitter with its _you’re nothing like I was_ and _you’re nothing at all_.  

  It’s the week after he’s made up when he first hears it, just a strange voice in the back of his head mumbling something too quietly to hear. Proko brushes it off as some side effect of being the product of someone else’s mind. When it comes back a few days later, the voice makes clear that it has nothing to do with dreaming or anyone else’s consciousness. That _he_  has nothing to do with dreaming or anyone else’s consciousness. _Does he call you Ilya? Does he?_

   If Proko’s heart can hurt, it certainly does when he realizes that’s the first time he’s heard the name out loud. Or in his head. Ilya, Ilya, Ilya. Someone he’s not. 

  “No,” Proko answers, only being made aware he did so out loud when Jiang tosses him a weird look from the front seat. The only reason he’s not up front instead  is because K isn’t there, just Skov driving and Jiang keeping him company. Proko’s only tagging along because he likes the prospect of Taco Bell at 11 pm on a Monday. Does he even like anything? Or did K just dream that specifically for him, “yeah, weird cravings at weird hours because why the hell not.” 

   _It’s not from him, dumbass._ The voice, Ilya’s voice, catches Proko off guard, filled with poison and sharp edges that dig right into his skin. _Everything you are is a sad  copy of everything I was. I_ hear _you call him K. He’s my Joey. You’ll never be his Ilya_.  

  It’s true, but Proko doesn’t answer. He’s only ever known a Kavinsky that treats him like a distraction, a memorial built just to defile. He can’t imagine it any other way. He’s wished he could several times in his first week of being, but K probably made sure that wouldn’t happen. The only reason he lets his forgery have some kind of feeling is so that he can laugh when Proko cries. _He’s nothing without me, either_ , Ilya snaps, but this time the venom is laced with something akin to sadness. Proko puts his hands over his ears as if it’ll make a difference, but it doesn’t stop the quiet sobs that start to echo through his head.  

   “Shut up,” Proko says, still ignoring the way Jiang shakes his head and rolls his eyes when he fists his hands in his platinum hair.

  “K’s fucked up for this one,” he murmurs just loud enough to hear. Skov nods in agreement, thin face more troubled than it has been in a long time. Proko’s never seen it any other way, but he has a feeling that’s only because of him. No amount of Taco Bell or late night drives can change that.

  When they get back to Swan’s apartment downtown, K is waiting at the door. His signature wife beater is covered up by a fur coat that Proko’s pretty sure came out of a dream just like him, and his new sunglasses are on despite the fact that it’s almost midnight. The last pair got broken when- not that. Not now. _You remember?_ Proko feels his heart sink. _I do too_.

  “Are we going home?” Proko asks, hopeful as he stands just outside the doorway. Swan is giving him a look from on the couch that means he isn’t welcome any further.

  “Get in the car,” K mutters, not specifying if that means they’re going home or not. He pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his back pocket. They’re a dream, just like the jacket. Proko wishes he could burn the same as them. Everything that has to do with Kavinsky _is_ Kavinsky.

  As he follows his dreamer down the steps in front of the apartments, Proko hears more than just a bitter voice behind him. He struggles not to look backwards as the footsteps grow closer, because he knows there’s no one behind him, no one at all- “Calm the fuck down,” Kavinsky groans, “I can see you back there.” Quietly, Proko wonders if he means the dream or the ghost.

   _This car was totaled last week_ , Ilya scoffs as Proko opens up the door of the Mitsubishi. 

   “It wasn’t this car,” says Proko, wringing his hands and collapsing into the passenger seat.

   “Who you talking to?” K asks, eyes narrowing behind his white sunglasses.

   “No one,” Proko snaps. It really is no one. Not anymore.

    _Guess he couldn’t deal with my blood all over the leather_. Proko shivers. Beside him, Kavinsky’s hands grip the wheel hard enough that his knuckles go white and the rings on his fingers start to cut into his pale skin.  

   It takes Proko a moment to see the hand that’s laid over his, shaking like a leaf and not quite there. He blinks a few times, and suddenly he’s looking in a mirror, except this mirror is leaning up from the back seat with his arms around K and a bleeding, ugly wound across his forehead. Ilya looks Proko in the eye with a small smirk that send goosebumps up the forgery’s arms before pressing a small kiss to Kavinsky’s neck. _Joey_ , he hums, moving his spindly hands to wrap around K’s neck.

  “Stop,” Proko croaks, dead still as the ghost leans up a bit further so that his mouth is at K’s ear. 

   _Look what you’ve done, Joey_. Before Proko can say anything, Kavinsky slams the brakes hard enough that his glasses slide halfway down his nose.

  “Get out,” he snarls, and when Proko hesitates, slings his door open to walk around to the other side of the car. Proko wishes he was Ilya, that he could disappear before K makes it to his door and drags him out. He’s shaking uncontrollably by the time his door is open, blood roaring in his ears loud enough that he can hardly hear Kavinsky shouting for him to get out of the car.

  “Please,” Proko sobs when he feels the cold barrel of a gun pressed to the side of his head. He opens his eyes just a bit, enough to see Kavinsky standing out in the November night and Ilya looking on from behind him. There’s something like a smile on his face. 

  “I said get the fuck out of my car,” Kavinsky repeats slowly. K doing anything slowly is never a good thing, especially when he has a gun out and this close to his forgery’s head. Proko’s mind is racing, replaying the events of the single week he’s been around in a constant loop that floods out in tears and hiccups. 

  Proko stumbles out of the car and into the grass, still crying and still shaking. He can hear K laughing, knows it’s only because he’s getting hurt. Just something to destroy and remake, that’s all he is- 

  Suddenly Ilya is pressed against K, emerald eyes cold as he wraps his hand around the other boy’s. Proko scrambles backwards, screaming now instead of crying but _it’s not that no one can hear you, it’s that no one will listen_.  

  It takes Proko a second too long to see Ilya’s finger pressing against the trigger, guiding K with an almost wistful smile. _You thought it would be that simple, Joey?_ he whispers. _I’m not that easy to replace_.  

  A moment later, Prokopenko’s blood is on the Mitsubishi for the second time in as many weeks. Both the car and the boy will be dreamed again. The car’s white paint never fades, but the boy’s green eyes seem to dull every time.

**Author's Note:**

> First work on here or anywhere, feedback is greatly appreciated. I've reviewed this way too many times but I'm sure I missed a lot


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